


name twins

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Paul is blinding, Paulo is really confused, almost teenage footballers in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paulo gets lost on his first day of training when he runs into Paul. Things spiral from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	name twins

**Author's Note:**

> I was angry that there were no Paul Pogba fics so I wrote one.

 

 

When Paulo arrives in Turin, everything seems too bright.

 

The flash of sunshine on white marble, the burning columns rising up to meet the blue sky and the people speaking in an unfamiliar accent, watching him with twinkling eyes, and the crisp contrast of black against white, the jersey at once familiar and not at all.

 

He’d packed his sunglasses in one of the boxes, but can’t remember which one it was, so he squints instead and hopes he doesn’t look too silly, but suspects he just looks twenty-one.

 

He gets lost on the first day of training. Of course he does. Paulo gets lost everywhere, it’s like his thing, he’d lived in Palermo for 5 years before he stopped getting lost on the way to his favorite restaurant. He asked someone to write him directions the day before, but those are probably in a box somewhere too, and now he’s staring at the flash of sunlight on glass doors and wondering which one to walk through.

 

He should have bought a pair of sunglasses on the way. He can afford that now.

 

“Hey,” he hears behind him, the voice loud enough to startle. “Dybala, right?”

 

He turns and there’s Paul, a dark figure against the blue of the sky, except for the stark white streak in his hair and the bright slash of his smile.

“You’re Paul Pogba,” he says, dumbstruck. All his nervous energy suddenly multiples and spews from his mouth on random. “We’re name twins.”

 

“Name twins?” Paul asks, tilting his head sideways, quizzically. He looks like a very tall, skinny bird and Paulo wonders if he’s managed to get sunstroke, with comparisons like that. Paul wanders over, closing the distance between them.

 

“Yeah, you know, you’re Paul and I’m Paulo. We’re name twins.”

 

Paul laughs, loudly and with delight, like Paulo’s just made the funniest joke in the world, and the sound makes the tension in Paulo’s back instantly unwind.

 

“Okay, name twin,” Paul says, grinning. “What are you doing out here when we’re supposed to be at training?”

 

“Ah…I got lost.” It seems less embarrassing, when all Paul does is laugh again, then swings his arm over Paulo’s shoulder, leading him through the front door. It’s been there all this time, but he’s somehow managed not to notice it. He really needs a pair of sunglasses.

 

 

*

 

 

Paul sticks by his side all through training; a warm firm presence at his elbow through briefing, a warmer hand dragging him around to introduce to everyone.

 

“I see you’ve been adopted,” Gigi says and Paolo nods, somewhat tongue tied, because this is _Gigi Buffon_. Paul just grins, says, “It’s because we’re name twins, Gigi!” and tugs him off to meet Patrice Evra.

 

 

*

 

 

It doesn’t occur to him to ask till later, after he’s been listening to Paul chatter for hours and marveled at how much he didn’t mind for a bit less than that.

 

“Hey, Paul,” he asks, breaking into a story about Paul’s gardener and his flock of dogs. “How did you know who I was?”

 

Paul laughs again, presses his fingertips into the crook of Paolo’s elbow. He does that a lot, Paolo’s noticed, quick touches and side hugs, soft and brief, like he’s making sure he still has his attention. He does, of course. Paolo feels like he hasn’t paid attention to much else.

 

“It’s because I know everything,” Paul says, winks, then pulls out a pair of sunglasses from his bag to perch them on Paolo’s nose, taking out another pair for himself. A moment later, he’s heading through the door, calling out a goodbye.

 

Paolo blinks for a moment, adjusting to the muted vision from the glasses, then hurries to catch up.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s not until months later that he realizes that Paul wasn’t kidding. He really does know everything.

 

Not in the ways Gigi does, demanding and guarding the flow of information like he guards his goal, like he knows every whisper in every backroom in Turin and hoards it jealously.

 

It’s not even like Pirlo, in front of whom the city unravels like an old mistress, open in familiarity and admiration, like he might turn her strings even from New York.

 

Paul knows people, not the city. Paul knows the names of every single one of the staff, knows their birthdays and how many children they have. Who has a sick dog and who laughs the hardest at puns. Paul has a way of settling under your skin without you even minding, inspires universal love and joy wherever he goes.

 

Paulo wonders if he’d ever had a chance of resisting it, but then Paul grins at him across the field and his stomach drops to his ankles, and he figures that no, probably not.

 

 

*

 

 

He thinks Paul knows about it, the first time they kiss.

 

They’re in Paulo’s living room and they’ve eaten dinner on the couch, watching Die Hard on TV, groaning at how ridiculous the dub sounds, when Paul had turned to him mid-laugh and pressed his smile against Paulo’s lips.

He wonders, briefly, if Paul knows, if he’s known all along, about the butterflies in his stomach, about how the world grows soft and blurry when Paul smiles, but then Paul pulls back from the kiss, asks anxiously, “Is this alright?”

Charmed be the rare glimpse of insecurity, Paulo kisses him for lack of any other answer and they tumble onto the cushions, laughing, because Paul is unspeakably ticklish and Paulo’s accidentally jammed his elbow into his stomach, and because Paul’s laugh is contagious.

 

Paulo spares a thought of thanks that they didn’t do this first kiss thing standing up, because his feet are really sore and he doesn’t think he’d be able to balance on his toes right then, but then Paul kisses him again and he can’t think of anything else.

 

 

*

 

 

Paulo strokes through Paul’s dark hair, tracing the designs shaved into the sides, winding the blonde streak around his fingers, until it curls. The man is sprawled in his lap, all too long limbs and warm muscle. He’s heavy, but Paulo doesn’t want to move, feeling languid and comfortable, despite the muted hum of the plane engine in the back.

 

The plane is dark; mostly everyone’s fallen asleep already. There’s a light a little while down the aisle, probably the boss, pouring over some tactics, but other than that, things are quiet.

 

Paulo looks up, almost jumps when he’s met with Gigi’s inquisitive gaze. The man is half leaning on the seat in front of them, probably stopped on the way to the toilet. Paolo hadn’t heard him come closer; the man could move like a cat when he wanted to.

 

“Alright?” Gigi asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

 

Paul chooses that moment to let out a little snore, the one that usually comes out when he’s really deeply dreaming. He burrows closer, into the cloth of Paulo’s jumper, like a child, and Paulo is suddenly so overwhelmingly fond, he feels like he might burst with it.

 

He looks up and something of it must show on his face, because Gigi is smiling.

 

“It’s pretty good,” Paulo says, softly, and means it.

 

 

*

 

 

Turin feels too bright, too beautiful and sometimes harsh. So Paulo keeps his head down, puts in the work and tries not to breathe too fast when the spotlight turns on him. Paul is there by his side, the first one to pull him into a celebratory hug, the one who presses a kiss against his neck when they’re concealed by the bodies of their teammates.

 

The weird thing is that Paul shines just as bright as Turin does, belongs in the crisp lines of the Juventus jersey in a way that Paulo’s just learning to emulate, but Paul is never intimidating for it. Paul never hurts his eyes when he smiles, bright like the sun rolling off marble, just makes him want to smile back.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
